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Jan Corey Arnett: Some perspective

Although I can’t prove it conclusively, I have a hunch that others of my generation, at teachable moments, very likely heard from their parents some of the same expressions I heard from mine.

One at the dinner table for example was, “Clean your plate. There are starving children in Africa who would be glad for that food.” Another, when whining about something inconsequential, was, “I complained because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet.”

At the time most of us would not have wanted our parents to know we were actually listening (perish the thought) or that we might be absorbing the meaning of their words (shock of shocks).

In September, I had an opportunity to revisit parental teachable moments. I have always been very active. But, in too short a time, I took on too much and I was finished long before the work was. I knew better than to attempt what I was doing, resulting in pulled muscles, my worst-ever fibro flare, and prolonged arthritic pain. Never before in my life had I experienced the agony of muscle spasms, but the simple motion of turning over, or trying to get out of bed was an excruciating challenge.

Fortunately, the spasms lasted only a week. Afraid to take prescription medication I relied on an OTC remedy. Two months later, my aging frame is still reminding me, “Hey stupid, pay attention to what I am telling you because if you don’t listen the first time I will tell you again and you won’t like what I have to say.”

If there is good that can come from the times when we are knocked low by ailment or injury it is being presented with teachable moments. I was bemoaning how miserable I felt, yet I knew and was encouraged by the certainty that “This too shall pass.”

I was humbled by memories of my mother’s last year of life when, after a lifetime as a very active, capable, amazing woman, she could do very little for herself and had to rely on others for everything, including help with the most personal aspects of self-care. Yet despite her circumstances, she faced each long day with grace and dignity and with extraordinary compassion for her caregivers, many of whom admired her tremendously as did her family and friends.

My sister June, a devout and optimistic person, forwarded during my bout of discomfort, images widely circulated on the Internet, of a handsome young soldier who had returned from service, tragically disfigured. Through long months of pain, surgeries, and total dependence on others, he and his wife faced each and every hurdle with optimism and love. This young man whose life and future had been torn apart, has every right to complain because he truly has no feet….or hands.

We waste far too much precious time making mountains out of molehills. Is it the crisis that a woman made it out to be when, at a convenience store, she became a drama queen because the brand of bottled water she preferred wasn’t carried and she had to settle for something else. Really? There were too many choices as it was. Millions around the world, including right here in Michigan, do not have safe drinking water at all, much less as a dozen brand names on a store shelf.

Young girls roll their eyes and carry on about clothes and fake fingernails as if their lives would be irreparably damaged if any of those things wasn’t just perfect. Pressure to conform and fit in does more harm than good, but they cannot see it and think past it.

Far too many men behave as if sports are the only way to prove their masculinity and as if having their team lose a game is the end of the world. If they could see themselves would they think twice about brains versus brawn?

I have my aches and pains but I also have life and limb and, I hope, a better grounding in what has true meaning at the start and end of each day.

It is time to get over ourselves. Life is short and we waste far too much of it on what really doesn’t matter.

Write Jan at coralan@comast.net, or visit her website: jancoreyarnett.com